Swan Song
by OfficialLostGirl
Summary: Swan Song - definition: one final effort just before death. Rated T for the foul and frankly inappropriate language that comes from the mouth of our leading lady. Cassian/OC
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

They had lived on Tav, a small, freezing cold, scarcely populated forest planet. Her village, which consisted of roughly twenty mud huts packed closely together and topped with leafy roofs, had existed solely on the income from the nearby empire base. They came into the village to purchase personal necessities on occasion, but almost every night you could find a group of light-skinned, grey-haired men occupying the table in the far corner of the tavern.

Her family had run the tavern as long as she's been alive. It was the largest building in the village, with a sturdy front door, two windows, and an uneven entrance that you learned to watch your step at. The inside boasted five tables, a counter, two light fixtures, and a questionable fresher.

They themselves lived in a one-room area behind the main bar, since mud huts can't feasibly support a second story. It was smaller than the tavern, with the two beds pushed to the far left side of the space, directly next to the fireplace. To the right, a large device took up the rest of the room. It had a screen which always seemed to be blank, and various knobs and buttons, none of which she knew what to do with. When she used asked her parents what it was, they would reply that it was simply a communication device. When she asked why it was so big, the answer was that it was "old, and had to be big to get the signal past all the trees".

She learned to stop asking when she was 6.

When she was 10, she lost it all.

It had been any other night in her eyes. She had been picking up the empty mugs from one of the recently-vacated tables. Now there was only Jer left in the tavern, at the table by the door, still taking the smallest sips from his caf.

The older men who usually came in hadn't been seen around the village for the last few days, but she wasn't complaining. They would come in so stoic and silent, and then, three drinks in, would be so loud they drove the other customers away. She hated both behaviors equally.

She took the used mugs behind the counter, set them with the rest of the dirty cups, and heard a bang.

She figured Jer had knocked over his mug - again - so she placed the last mug down and rose up, only to see white.

Stormtroopers.

It all happened so quickly after that. She was only ten, there was only so much she could process at once in such a state of shock.

She was one the ground, knees clutched to her chest, looking at her parents through wet eyes. Their bodies lay before her, eyes wide, arms reaching out to her.

When she looked away from them finally, she was staring down the barrel of a blaster. The trigger was never pulled.

She caught phrases as they discussed what to do with her.

"-just a kid..."

"I'm not gonna do it-"

"-let the cold take her-"

And like that she was alone.

She would later be found by a rebel informant, sent to warn her parents of the oncoming attack, but a little too late.

She would learn that the men in the tavern were elites of the Empire.

She would learn that her parents would listen to those drunk men, sending all the information they gathered to the Alliance.

She would learn that some of that information proved useful, and won a battle for the Alliance.

She would learn that the Empire had traced the source of the leaked information to her planet, her village.

She would learn to hate the Empire for everything they had done to her, her people, and all other people in the galaxy.

She spent her first few days with the Alliance grieving for the loss of her home, her family, and essentially her entire life. They had found a small, unused room for her to stay in. They dragged a cot against the farthest wall, set a heater next to the door, and came to visit frequently in attempts to cheer her up, if only slightly.

It was a week before any of the attempts worked.

It was with the arrival of Thessin, a worn, tired looking mechanic that she found herself beginning to smile. He would visit her every day, each time bringing a new food or toy, and once she'd grown too old for that, he'd bring parts. He showed her how to put certain bits together to make even bigger bits. He took her to his workshop, down a labyrinth of twists and turns and so far from the lift she'd never find it on her own, where he showed her the droid he was working on. It was short and small and was made to help fly ships, he told her.

Thessin become like a father to her. Not a replacement for the father she'd lost months ago, but another one, who taught her to live on the base, taught her to navigate the maze of halls and floors, taught her to build and take apart and fix and create. He introduced her to the other mechanics on the base, helped her make friends, and helped her find her place in her new home – The Alliance.

 **A/N: Hello there! Thanks for reading!**

 **So... I have no idea where I'm going with this story, but hopefully you liked that bit! I'll think of a plot eventually, as I want the addition of this character to impact the story.**

 **If you did enjoy please follow or favorite or review! It only takes a second of your time but it means the world to us writers! Plus it will encourage me to finish up the first chapter, which I've already begun writing.**

 **(I promise she will have a name next chapter, but this was basically an intro into the story, since the next chapter throws us right into the action)**

 **See you next chapter (hopefully)!**

 **-Nat**


	2. Chapter 1

**Full disclosure: I know barely anything about mechanics and nothing about Star Wars mechanics so forgive me if I get the space lingo wrong.**

 **Chapter 1**

Stupid carburetor. Stupid engine. Stupid speeder.

She grunted in frustration, slamming her hand down onto the metal surface of her workbench, the wrench in her hand creating a loud _clang_.

Myra had been working on this stupid speeder for three hours nonstop. Her hair hand long been tied back to keep it out of her face, and her forehead was stained with grease from the numerous times she had wiped the sweat from her brow. Her coveralls had been unzipped down to her waist, the arms tied about her hips and exposing the black tank underneath so as to provide the illusion of being cooler in this sauna they called a workshop.

Really, though, it wasn't that bad. The workshop itself was spacious enough for her assignments (and a few personal projects she was working on). Her workbench sat in the dead center of the room, and it was always loaded down with various tools and parts. The left side of the room housed all of her large welding equipment, along with the skeletons of a couple of droids Michael had given to her for "whatever weird projects you work on". The back wall consisted entirely of hooks and brackets, and nearly every one was holding fast to a tool. To the left was a small, worn down cot she had requested a few weeks after receiving the workshop.

She had been eager to please those first months, and would often stay working late into the night, falling asleep on one of the high stools with her head resting on the workbench and her hand still clutching a welder. After three mornings of sore backs and greasy hair, Myra had deemed the cot a worthwhile investment, and asked Thessin for one the next day.

Currently on the table sat the engine to an FI-9 speeder bike. Most days were spent fixing X-wings or supply ships, getting them repaired and ready for their next mission. And with the Empire looming ever closer, no one ever knew when that might be.

Myra honestly didn't know shit about bikes, though she figured it couldn't be too far off from the basic engines Thessin had used to teach her basic mechanics all those years ago. She was very wrong, and becoming increasingly frustrated. But when one's higher-up wrecks their speeder and asks for help fixing it, one tends to agree with a smile. Especially when that higher-up oversees job assignments, and Myra certainly didn't want to be fixing ships forever.

It's not that she didn't appreciate her work. She knew that without her and other mechanics like her, the Alliance would surely crumble. At least, that's what she figured, with the number of ships she fixed every single day. But it was never very rewarding.

When they won a battle, or intercepted vital information, no one thanked the mechanics for fixing the ships or building the comm equipment. Secretly, Myra had always wondered what her life might've been like if Thessin had been a pilot or a fighter instead of a mechanic.

At this point, she had just about resigned herself to picking up her wrench and giving the engine another go, when there came a knock at her door. Assuming it was just Michael popping in to pester her to take her lunch break with him, she didn't even turn around.

"Fifteen more minutes, Michael. This hunk of junk is about to make me scream but it'll bother me too much if I leave without finishing it."

There was a pause before a voice rang out, "Eh, excuse me?"

That was far too accented to be Michael.

Myra swiveled her head to the door directly over her left shoulder to see Captain Cassian Andor.

She didn't know him very well. In fact, she didn't know him at all, besides his name.

Well, scratch that, she knew all about his ship. Myra worked on it constantly. She would get a call on her comm link a couple of times per week, saying that his ship had just docked and needed repairs - unless of course he was undercover and then he wouldn't be seen for weeks, even months depending on the mission. Not that she kept track or anything.

She would arrive at the hangar bay, and he would already be leaving his ship, nothing but a blaster at his side. Every other pilot she knew took bags with them, and when she tested their flight controls, she would almost always find a picture of a loved one tucked somewhere on the console.

Not Andor, though. She would take one step inside and wouldn't believe someone had flown exclusively in this ship for the past year. No bags, no pictures, no sign it had ever been flown (besides the wear on the ship itself). She would finish up her work, prep it for the test flight if any major repairs had been done, then wait for the captain. Unlike the other pilots, he never once thanked her. Andor would always walk right past her without averting his eyes from the ship, and take off not even seconds after she had cleared the area.

Not that she minded or anything. She didn't need constant gratitude to feel that her job was well done. But it didn't hurt, either.

Trying not to raise her eyebrows in surprise, she replied, "Oh, hello there Captain, how can I help you? Is something wrong with your ship? Is the left gear shift sticking again?"

He appeared taken aback that she knew his ship so well. He probably didn't even know she was the one who worked on it at least twice a week.

"Well, uh, yes, actually. But that's not why I'm here."

She turned her whole body to face him fully, then. His face was solemn and drawn, which meant he most likely had just returned from a mission. His hair was tousled just a bit, and he had the remains of soot on his face and clothes, which meant it probably wasn't an easy mission.

Had it been anyone else, she would have raised an eyebrow and waited impatiently for them to ask for help outright. But this was Captain Andor, and if she was being honest, he intimidated her quite a bit.

"What do you need, sir?" she asked, straightening up. What could it be? She figured it must be either important or against the rules, since he was coming to her directly.

He paused again, as if he had changed his mind, but then sighed. Turning slightly to his left, Andor dragged out what looked to be a disabled imperial protocol droid, if the hole through its abdomen were any indication. That, however, seemed to be the only damage. It was a shiny black, and must've been at least two heads taller than the captain. Myra wondered how heavy it was, and figured Andor must be fairly strong to have brought it here alone.

He lifted the drops slightly higher off the ground, and pulled it fully into her workshop before speaking.

"I need you to help me fix this."

The speeder engine now lay forgotten at the foot of her cot. Instead, her table now held the imperial protocol droid that Captain Andor had dumped on her.

And yes, literally dumped.

After Myra had agreed to help him fix the droid, the captain had thanked her, and then a few moments later, disappeared.

She muttered angrily to herself about it, continuing to assess the damage that she would need to repair. The blaster shot had gone clean through the chest of the droid and, just her luck, had destroyed the primary motor cortex. Shit. This was going to take a lot longer than she had originally believed.

Andor had been gone for a solid half hour, and Myra assumed she would not see him again until she had finished the droid. She was quickly proven wrong, and she heard footsteps in the hallway outside her door, and turned on her stool to watch the captain walk through the door with two plates of food from the cafeteria.

Myra's surprise must have been evident on her face, for the corners of his mouth lifted slightly as he took the stool on the other side of the table and set the plates down.

"Did you think I'd left you?" he inquired, digging in to his slider.

Myra lifted her shoulders slightly. "I wasn't sure. I hoped you hadn't, but usually when people ask for my help, that's what ends up happening."

Andor nodded his head and continued to eat. Myra took that as the end of the short conversation, and brought her own food to her mouth. Once they had both finished, the captain spoke again.

"How long will it take to fix it?"

Setting both their empty trays to the side, Myra moved back over the droid. "Longer than you were thinking, I assume. The shot that disabled it also busted the primary motor cortex."

She looked over at the captain, waiting for his response, though he seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate. Ah, so he didn't know much about mechanics, Myra thought. Though, in his defense, she supposed he didn't really need to.

"Without a functioning motor cortex, the droid can't move," she explained. "I can fix it, but I'll need another cortex to replace the fried one. Thankfully, one from any 3PO unit should suffice, I just don't have one."

The captain nodded in understanding. "I can get the cortex for you."

Myra inclined her head slightly, examining the blaster hole in the droid more closely. "So, not to be intrusive, but what do you plan to do with this droid? If I'm helping, I'd like to know what it's for."

"I'm going to reprogram it."

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "You know how to do that?"

Fixing broken parts, or even building a new droid from scratch was simple for her. But reprogramming was something entirely different. Myra had tried to learn once, had hoped to build her own droid one day and program it too, but she couldn't understand any of it. Many mechanics were allowed to keep large, heavy duty computers in their workshops for that sort of thing, but Myra had declined when they'd offered one to her. It wasn't as if she knew how to use it.

At her question, Andor nodded again, and looked around the room for the one he assumed she would possess.

Myra explained, "I don't have a computer. Never been very adept at all that stuff. But my friend Michael has a mobile computer, would that work for reprogramming?"

Andor thought for a moment. "Yes, it should."

"Alright then. I suppose you should work on the reprogramming first. In case anything goes wrong, it's probably best if the droid can't rip you in half, don't you think?"

That got a small, genuine laugh out of the captain, and he shook his head. "Yes, I agree."

Myra stood from her stool. "Well then, I'll go get the computer from Michael. We can start when I get back." She smiled at the captain, a gesture he returned slightly, and headed out the door.

Michael's workshop was only a little ways down the hall, and their close proximity over the years had led to them making fast friends, and spending their lunches together.

As she stepped inside, she was reminded of the stark differences between their workshops. His back wall was identical, boasting various tool and such, and the workbench was placed just like her own, but that's where the similarities ended. The left side of the room housed the large computer that Myra had declined for herself, as well as a table littered with weapon parts. She knew that the drawers underneath contained even more odds and ends Michael used to create his gadgets. On the right, a long rack ran all the way down the wall, and from it hung various blasters. Some were long and thin, others short and stout, and other small and compact.

Michael specialized in weapons design and repair, which Myra had found completely fascinating when they'd met. At the time, he had mainly been given broken weapons to fix, but since then, he had proven his skill in design, and had been working on his mini blaster for months. He wanted to make a blaster so small, it was able to be concealed pretty much anywhere on a person. He was having trouble getting the firing mechanism to stop seizing up last time she had asked about it, and she had suggested some techniques he could try out. Mostly, though, he kept his progress on it a secret, not wanting to be embarrassed if some aspect didn't work. Myra understood that very well, and she didn't like others to see her unfinished projects either.

At the moment, he seemed to be engrossed in the minuscule wiring of a handheld blaster he was repairing, and hadn't noticed her entrance. Therefore, when she slammed her hand down onto the table next to him, he screamed and fell from his stool.

He swore at her from the floor as she laughed, doubled over. "Kriffing hell, Myra, you damn menace. What was that for?"

Once she had regained her composure, she shrugged. "The opportunity presented itself, and it was too good to pass up."

He scowled playfully at her and stood, but she continued before he could say anything. "I actually came to ask if I could borrow your mobile computer for a while."

At that, he gave her a questioning look. "M, we both know you're shit with computers. I don't trust you with my mobile."

Myra put on an offended face, though they both knew he was correct. "How rude. You'll be happy to know that I'm not the one using it. I'm helping Captain Andor repair a droid, but we need a computer to reprogram it. Please?"

He rolled his eyes as she stuck out her bottom lip at him. Michael waved his hand at her. "Fine, fine, it's in the corner on the table...Wait, did you say Captain _Andor_?"

Myra titled her head back. "Please don't start."

"Start what? I just need to know one thing: is he as pretty up close as he is from far away?"

Myra smiled at him. "Prettier."

Michael threw himself into the stool and rested his head on the table dramatically. "Aw, I knew it. Are you sure you can find your way back alright? I could escort you, or carry the computer for you, and maybe say hello to Captain Andor while I'm there..."

"No, not happening." Myra crossed to the back of the room, plucked the computer from the table and made her way out the door accompanied by his cries of "please!" and "you're the worst best friend ever!"

She laughed and made her way back to her own workshop.

 **A/N: Thank you for reading! So what do you think? Sorry this chapter is so short, I just wanted to get some of the actual story published for you guys!**

 **I'm trying to do my research and keep everything as accurate as possible when it comes to the words used in the SW universe, but I know I will get some stuff wrong, so sorry for that.**

 **(Also a primary motor cortex isn't really a mechanical term, it's the area of the brain that controls movement, but I figured it was close enough lol)**

 **If you enjoyed it, please review!**


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